


High School Boys

by defying3reason



Series: College Boys and High School Girls [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:09:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel for the fic College Boys and High School Girls. </p><p>At his mother's insistence, Courfeyrac reluctantly starts being nicer to one of the weird kids in his grade. Eventually, he gets a best friend and then some out of the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story stands alone from College Boys and High School Girls (though if you're not already reading that one and want to check it out, I am rather pleased with how it's turning out). Basically, while I was working on the most recent story arc in that one, I felt compelled to backtrack a little and write about how Grantaire and Courfeyrac came to be friends. I'm also thinking of doing something similar with Enjolras and Combeferre eventually too.
> 
> Also, in the other fic I decided against addressing the issue of names. I do realize that most of the characters I use are going by their last names. I don't want to give them first names, so I'm just having their parents call them by whatever we're used to calling them, and I'm giving the parents that show up first names. In deference to Fra Fee, Courfeyrac is from an Irish-American family, and I've named his mother Bridget.

For what was hopefully the last time, Courfeyrac found himself spending a Saturday afternoon suffering through the indignity of school shopping with his mother at a discount department store in what the locals referred to as ‘the dirt mall.’ They’d opened the day with an hour long fight in the shoe section-she wanted to get him ‘a sharp looking pair of sneakers’ and Courfeyrac wanted skater shoes. Eventually they’d compromised on a black pair of Converse knockoffs.

Now she was piling dorky looking outfit after dorky looking outfit into the carriage, occasionally stopping to smooth down his hair and trying to needle him into letting her cut it.

He needed a sanity break. Courfeyrac ditched her while she was searching through a rack of clearance pants and went for a stroll down a nearby aisle of hygiene products.

This was not how he wanted to spend one of the last days of summer. Especially not the last summer before his first day of high school. Still, it had to be done. Maybe next year she’d just give him the money and he could do the school shopping on his own.

Courfeyrac spent a fair few minutes looking between body sprays and colognes, trying to figure out what the hell the difference was, and if he was expected to wear something like that now that he was a high school kid. He figured he must. Some of the guys at his school had already been wearing that stuff last year, as eighth graders. He blindly grabbed a can of Axe and went to ask his mother if they could buy it.

He didn’t find her in the clothing aisles or by the dressing rooms. Figuring she must have gone on to actual school supplies, like notebooks, he started towards the back of the store where the seasonal merchandise was kept. He didn’t find her there either.

Courfeyrac was about to go to customer service to have her paged when he finally found his mother in one of the food aisles. It looked like she’d been stocking up on peanut butter and Capri Sun (great, another year of bag lunches). Courfeyrac went to get her attention, then stopped in his tracks when he noticed she was talking to somebody.

It was one of his classmates, one of the weird kids who always sat in the back of the room, and smoked behind the dumpsters during lunch, and got into fights and got detention at least once a week. Courfeyrac ran over to put himself between the weirdo and his mother, who was chatting his ear off as though he were a normal kid and not an obvious sketchy freak.

“Sweetie, there you are!” she exclaimed. “I was just talking to one of your friends.”

“He’s not my friend,” Courfeyrac blurted out before he thought better of it. To his surprise, the kid actually looked a little hurt by it, though he might have imagined the frown. It was gone so quickly, replaced almost immediately by an insolent smirk.

“Sorry ma’am, I didn’t mean to mislead you. We don’t hang out or anything. But Courf invited me to his last couple of birthday parties. That’s why I looked familiar to you.”

His mother put her hands on her hips. “Courfeyrac, is there a reason you’re not friends with Grantaire? I happen to know his mother, Lucette. I think the two of you should start hanging out. That is what you kids still call it, right?”

“ _Mom_ ,” Courfeyrac snapped, mortified. “I’m fourteen. You are _not_ allowed to set up playdates for me anymore.”

“Okay, mister big strong adult. What’s that you’ve got there?”

“Oh, uh…” Courfeyrac tried to hide the body spray behind his back. He wasn’t entirely sure about his choice, but he figured he’d done something wrong because Grantaire had burst into loud guffaws.

“Axe! Really? Oh man, I didn’t realize you were such a tool, Courfeyrac.”

“Shut up!”

“Boys!” Bridget snatched the can away from her son and gave it a disdainful look. “I think you’re still a bit young for this. But if you want to start wearing cologne or something like that we can have your father take you out and pick something out. Okay precious?”

“Mom,” Courfeyrac groaned. Of course she had to smother him and treat him like a five year old in front of one of the most disreputable kids in his grade. “Can we just get out of here?”

“I don’t think so, mister man. You’ve got a pile of new clothes to try on. Oh, Grantaire, sweetheart! How long are you going to be around today? After we finish with our shopping, I usually take my boy out to Brigham’s for lunch. You’re welcome to come with us.”

Grantaire took a moment to answer, expression conflicted. He looked first at Bridget, who was smiling at him cheerfully, and then at Courfeyrac, who was thinking ‘no-no-no-get the fuck away from my mom-no’ as hard as he could on the off-chance he’d developed telepathy and the kid would pick up on it. “I-I’d like to, but um…I’m a little low on funds at the moment.”

“Oh, that’s not an issue sweetheart. I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t going to pay. Come to lunch with us, really. It’ll be fine. I won’t make you wait for Courfeyrac to try on all his new clothes though. You shouldn’t have to suffer through that with me. Here.” She reached into her purse and took out a five dollar bill. “Why don’t you run down to the arcade and then meet us at the restaurant in a half hour? That should be enough time, right Courfeyrac?”

“But Mom, he said he didn’t want to go.”

“Well maybe he wouldn’t have if you weren’t glaring at him, dear.” She smiled sweetly, then shooed Grantaire off in the direction of the arcade. Looking like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, Grantaire shuffled off.

Bridget started singing under her breath as she pushed her full carriage towards the dressing rooms. Courfeyrac skulked after her with his head down. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“What, invited a poor starving boy out for a free meal? Sweetie, you should have seen the way he was eyeing the cracker sandwiches over there when I happened by.”

“He was probably going to steal them. Mom, he’s one of the weird kids. I wouldn’t be surprised if he steals. He smokes, and he talks back to teachers, and he dresses like a weirdo too. He’s a total freak. If anyone sees me having lunch with him-”

“If you keep going on like that then you can sit in the car while Grantaire and I have lunch. I told you dear, I know his mother, and I know of his father. You should…have some compassion for him and his sister. If he’s a little rough around the edges, the poor dear has a reason.”

Courfeyrac fumed at the injustice of it all. “If I smoked and talked back to teachers and got detention you’d lose it on me!”

“Does it tell you something that his parents don’t?” Bridget asked pointedly. “Your father and I correct your behavior because we care about you, sweetheart. Now here, try this shirt on. I think you’ll look handsome in it.”

Courfeyrac looked down at the striped, button downed shirt and wrinkled his nose in distaste. “If I shut up about Grantaire, can we not buy clothes that will get me beat up at school?”

“If you agree to be kind to Grantaire, I’ll let you get those ugly, expensive shoes you wanted.”

“Deal.”

* * *

 

Grantaire was waiting for them on a mall bench outside the restaurant. Even though he was clearly there under Bridget’s instructions, he still looked surprised to see them. Courfeyrac started in surprise when the weird kid smiled shyly at his mother and shuffled after her into the restaurant.

They got a booth together, and Bridget quickly started supplying chit chat, as usual giving no appreciation for her son’s desire to appear cool in front of one of his classmates (even one he didn’t really like). She ruffled Courfeyrac’s hair, seeking Grantaire’s opinion on the possibility of a pre-school haircut.

“Mom, quit it! Besides, what do you think _he’s_ going to say? I don’t think he even brushes his rat’s nest.”

Grantaire frowned. “When I can find the brush I do.” He self-consciously touched his uneven black tangles, and Bridget whapped her son’s arm.

“You know sweetheart, you are right about something. Both of you boys could use haircuts. Grantaire dear, your hair is a bit long too. School starts on Wednesday…oh! Why don’t we go get haircuts together Tuesday night? I could take you out for lunch again too.”

“I…I couldn’t really, um…” Grantaire dropped his head and mumbled something inaudible.

“Too much,” Bridget said to herself with a nod. “Maybe some other time. So, what are you guys going to get? I was thinking we could split some mozzarella sticks for an appetizer, and this fish sandwich looks like it has my name on it.”

“I dunno. A burger, I guess,” Courfeyrac said with a shrug. “Are we getting ice cream too?”

“Sure. Get whatever you want. Do you want any other appetizers sweetie?”

Courfeyrac stared at his mother, not sure she was in her right mind. She never let him get whatever he wanted at restaurants, even cheap little places like Brighams. She usually asked him if he thought she was made of money when he tried to get a sundae out of her.

Then Grantaire quietly tried to order a side dish instead of a meal and Courfeyrac understood. She was trying to encourage their reluctant guest to get whatever he wanted too, not what he felt was most polite. She must have thought he really was starving or something.

Bridget was able to goad Grantaire into getting a burger and fries as well, and even though he tried to insist he wasn’t really that hungry, and a side order of fries would have been fine, he devoured everything that was put in front of him. He was actually really rude about it too. He chewed with his mouth open, and leaned his elbows on the table, and sat hunched over so that you couldn’t see his eyes. It made it difficult to have a conversation with him.

Not that Courfeyrac really wanted to talk to the guy, but it was still weird.

Grantaire looked a little less defensive by the time their ice creams arrived (Bridget had let him order one of the fancy ones that came with a heap of toppings and Courfeyrac felt a stab of injustice when he had to get a regular two scoop hot fudge that was three dollars cheaper). He ignored Courfeyrac though, in favor of telling his mother jokes and smiling stupidly at her.

Bridget returned his smiles with an indulgent, motherly look that Courfeyrac hadn’t gotten out of her on a regular basis since elementary school (unless he was sick).

They left the restaurant together. Grantaire insisted on helping Bridget carry the shopping bags out to the car, and not wanting to be outdone by some sketchy looking weirdo, Courfeyrac took the rest of the bags and his mother’s purse. She grinned broadly at both of them. “I’m going to have to invite you out with us more, Grantaire. You’re shaming my son into being a regular gentleman.”

“It’s the least I can do. You bought me lunch,” Grantaire muttered, face going red.

They loaded the bags into the trunk, then Grantaire awkwardly shuffled off to the side with his hands in his pockets. “Well, thanks for everything. That was really fun.”

“Sweetheart, how are you getting home?” Bridget asked.

Grantaire shrugged. “Bus?”

“Are you sure? Because that sounded like a question to me.”

“Uh…well, actually I was probably going to walk. But it’s fine. I don’t live far away or anything.”

“Grantaire, get in the car.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Courfeyrac got into the front seat and buckled in without comment. He expected Grantaire to have to give his mother directions, but she started driving for Grantaire’s house on her own. He remembered her saying that she knew his mother though, so maybe she’d given the woman a ride before or something.

It occurred to Courfeyrac that they weren’t heading for a particularly nice part of town. Courfeyrac’s family wasn’t rich by any stretch of the imagination, but they made enough to live comfortably and their house was in a decent neighborhood. It looked like Grantaire lived on one of the streets Courfeyrac wasn’t allowed to go down by himself after dark.

Bridget pulled the car up to a rundown looking brick building. There was no front yard to speak of, the sidewalk simply ended and the building’s foundation began. One of the windows on the first floor was boarded up and there was an ominous looking No Trespassing sign taped to it.

Grantaire jumped out of the backseat and ran over to Bridget’s window. “Thanks for everything. Hey Courf, I’ll see you at school on Wednesday.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac said hesitantly. “See you.” He watched Grantaire run into the building, wondering why he felt so uncomfortable when he looked at the place.

Bridget let out a deep sigh before pulling the car back onto the road. “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea here. I think it’s horrible that Grantaire smokes, and that he gets into trouble at school, and all the rest of that. But sometimes when people act out like that, they’re not really bad people. They’re just lost and they’re crying out for help. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that boy that a little care and a good friend couldn’t fix. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”

Slowly, Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah. Um, you said you know his mom. What’s she like?”

“Lucette?” Bridget sighed again and shook her head. “She’s actually a lovely woman. She and Grantaire have the same eyes, all big and blue and pretty like that. But the poor thing’s…sick, I suppose. Yes, that’s the word for it. She’s sick.”

“Sick? How? Does she have cancer or something?”

“No, sweetheart, not like that. She’s not well…mentally.”

“So she’s a nutjob?” Courfeyrac asked.

Bridget pressed her lips together. “Please don’t say it like that. Courfeyrac, hon, Lucette’s been in and out of the hospital for her problems since before her children were born. She gets confused, and then she tries to hurt herself and, well, it’s all a big mess. That little boy has probably seen some things that no child should ever have to see. Just…try to have compassion for them, alright sweetheart?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be nicer to Grantaire, I promise.”

“Thanks honey.”

When they got home Courfeyrac carried all the bags into the house. He supposed Grantaire really had shamed him into being a better son. When he set them on the kitchen table something fell out of the top of one of them. Courfeyrac bent over and picked up the five dollar bill his mother had given Grantaire for the arcade.

“Uh…Mom?”

Bridget frowned and returned the money to her purse. She didn’t say anything about it, so Courfeyrac didn’t either.

That night, when he looked into his dresser mirror and tried desperately to think of a ploy to keep his hair from being cut into some kind of wiener style that his mother would call “sharp”, his thoughts turned back to his damaged classmate. Courfeyrac was by no means an unpopular kid at his middle school, but he had hopes for high school. He wanted to run with a better crowd, have a hot girlfriend (or two, or three), maybe join some clubs and run for class office. He wanted to be cool.

And now he was going to have to stick up for one of the most unpopular kids in his class, because otherwise he wasn’t going to be able to live with himself.

Courfeyrac studied his appearance again and imagined himself with half as much hair, combed and gelled to match the tastes of a different generation (Bridget’s generation, to be specific). Scowling, he crossed the room and collapsed onto his bed.

School hadn’t even started yet, and his mother was already ruining his reputation.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you guys think? Is this one worth continuing, or should I just stick to working with them as college kids?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of high school could have gone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the feedback guys! Glad to see there's an interest for this, as I'm definitely interested in writing it. I just didn't want people to get mad at me for starting another project while they're waiting for updates on the main fic. I swear, I can work on both of them at once...

Though he was determined to keep his promise to his mother and be nicer to Grantaire when he saw him from then on, Courfeyrac found himself reluctant to keep that promise. It’s not that he personally had much of a problem with Grantaire (the kid was annoying sometimes, but then again, as a class clown so was Courfeyrac). It’s just that Grantaire was a pariah in their grade.

For starters, Grantaire was poor. That wasn’t exactly uncommon in their school, given that their city had a lot of low income neighborhoods with a plentiful supply of government assisted housing, but it wasn’t a recipe for popularity either. Most of the cool kids in their grade were upper middle class and thus able to host good parties. Unlike the majority of the school though, Grantaire didn’t bother trying to hide that he was poor. He showed up for school in obvious hand me downs (some from his sister, even), walked everywhere, used paper he swiped out of recycling bins to take notes in class (when he bothered being engaged enough to take notes), and he broke the biggest rule of all. He _talked_ about being poor.

Generally he was quiet though. He sat in the back of the room and doodled during class. When he was caught, his doodles were showed off to try to shame him, but it never worked properly. The only thing his classmates really liked about him were his satirical drawings of their teachers. When he did decide to participate in class he was usually disruptive. He argued with the teachers and tried to convince them they didn’t know what they were talking about. He was sarcastic, disrespectful, and also smart, even though his grades were abysmal. He used words from the vocabulary textbooks as though he’d seen them before they were taught to him, and he read in the library during lunch.

He wasn’t ashamed of that, either.

There were some other smart poor kids who weren’t ashamed of themselves in other grades, and they fared pretty well, but they were funny about it. They were light in their humor, and whereas Grantaire made a lot of jokes, very few people laughed at him. He made them all too uncomfortable.

So he was a pariah and Courfeyrac had promised to be nice to him. And he wanted to be popular…

The solution seemed simple. Courfeyrac decided to avoid Grantaire. If he never bumped into the guy then he wouldn’t be faced with a situation where he had to stick up for him, and if he never had to back down from sticking up for Grantaire then he wouldn’t be breaking any promises to his mother.

It seemed like a good plan up until the first day of school. Of Courfeyrac’s seven classes, Grantaire was in five of them. _Five_. And one of them was gym, which was where the brunt of any potential bullying was going to go down.

Grantaire took his usual post in the back for Algebra, English, Social Studies, and Biology, and as Courfeyrac sat in the middle, they really didn’t get much of an opportunity to speak to each other. He threw Grantaire a weak smile when he first sat down, and nodded at him as the class filed out of the room, and that was about it.

Courfeyrac couldn’t help studying him a little bit. It was common knowledge everyone showed up for the first day of school dressed to impress their peers, hoping that they could somehow reset their identity for a year and improve their reputation somehow. As such, Courfeyrac was wearing his new skater shoes, a pair of jeans his mother hadn’t found “sharp”, and a Beatles t-shirt. He’d managed to compromise with his mother, so his hair was shorter than he would have liked, but it was gelled like a fourteen year old’s and not a sixty year old’s. Grantaire, on the other hand, was wearing the same old rags as always, all black, ripped at the knees, and stained. The soles of one of his shoes was starting to peel off, and his hair was as scruffy and tangled as ever. As the one sole show of effort towards his appearance, he’d made himself a bracelet out of duct tape.

Courfeyrac couldn’t be sure, but he thought Grantaire’s jokes might go over a little bit better if he weren’t dressed like a crazy homeless guy.

His strategy ended up working fine, up until gym class. Even though it was the first day and the teachers were expected to only be going over technical crap, their teacher sent them into the locker rooms to get changed. Everyone complained about it, as they wouldn’t be doing anything more than getting locker assignments and going over the schedule for the quarter, but they dutifully marched back to the changing stalls and put on gym clothes.

The boys all filed back out to the gymnasium together and stood along a painted white line while their teacher, Mr. Bamatabois, inspected each of them. He stopped when he got to Grantaire. “You, kid. I thought I just sent you all to the locker rooms to get changed.”

“I didn’t think we’d need gym clothes on the first day so I didn’t bring any.”

“I thought those _were_ his gym clothes,” a girl whispered. The girls were standing on another line across from them, and most of them were now staring at Grantaire and whispering about his clothes.

“You’re going to have to sit out,” Mr. Bamatabois said. “Go sit on the bleachers. You’re not getting credit for today.”

“Are you fucking kidding? It’s the first fucking day of class. I can’t be the only kid who didn’t think we’d need gym clothes!”

“Clearly you were,” Bamatabois snapped, face going red, “As all your little snot nosed peers are wearing gym clothes. And if you ever talk to me like that again I’ll have you in detention for every Saturday between here and your graduation. Now go sit on the bleachers.”

Grantaire was clearly still muttering swears under his breath when he stalked over to the row of bleachers, but Bamatabois didn’t call him out on it. Even though the jerk had called them all snot nosed, the freshmen still laughed about him chewing out Grantaire.

Courfeyrac spared him a few glances while Bamatabois set them all up for a game of dodgeball. Grantaire was sitting with his head down in an attempt to hide his flushed face. Courfeyrac started wondering if he even had gym clothes.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it though. Only an idiot dazed out while a bunch of fourteen year old guys were being encouraged to hurl projectiles at each other. The first week of school was always made up of half days, as such gym was shortened (thus everyone’s assumption that they wouldn’t actually need their gym clothes). Therefore, Courfeyrac only had to worry about avoiding a power-hurled dodge ball to the face for fifteen minutes.

Soon the gymnasium was echoing with the sounds of sneakers squeaking against the floor as students ran and dove for cover, the echoing bang of rubber balls ricocheting off of the walls, floor, and bleachers, and wails of agony from those unlucky enough to sustain hits.

Then someone accidentally sent one of the balls flying towards Grantaire. It missed him by less than a foot. “Hey, assholes! I’m not playing, remember?” Grantaire shouted before throwing the ball back into play.

The more athletically inclined students traded absolutely evil looking smirks. Within seconds, Grantaire was being pelted with a hail of dodgeballs. He took one to the face that knocked him into the bleacher behind him, then one to the chest, and another to the back as he curled in on himself defensively with his arms over his head.

“Aren’t you going to stop that?!” Courfeyrac screamed, running towards the gym teacher. To his horror, Bamatabois was laughing.

“Yeah, I suppose I ought to. Hey kids, that’s enough. Keep the balls in play, okay?”

One more hit Grantaire on the top of his head. “Sorry, missed.” The kid didn’t sound sincere in the least.

“Hey, hey! They just _assaulted_ one of my classmates!” Courfeyrac bristled.

Bamatabois shrugged. “And none of them swore at me. But if you want to forfeit your participation for the day, you can go take your boyfriend down to the nurse’s office.”

Courfeyrac glared at the asshole who was apparently supposed to be one of his authority figures. This was not going to be a good school year.

He was thinking a whole lot of disparaging things about his gym teacher, but Courfeyrac didn’t say any of them. He simply walked off the floor and went over to the bleachers where Grantaire was still crouched over with his arms over his head.

Courfeyrac gently touched his shoulder, and he flinched. “Hey, it’s just me. Are you okay?”

“My nose is bleeding and my eyes are watering. I don’t want anyone to think I’m crying. My eyes are only wet because they were open when I got hit in the face.”

“It’s okay, Grantaire. No one’s looking at you.” That was a lie. The whole class was stealing looks at him every minute or so. A few of the kids were looking at Grantaire with pity, but not enough to give Courfeyrac much faith in the goodness of humanity. And the assholes who’d pelted Grantaire to begin with were still laughing, a few of them even trading high fives.

“Bamatabois said I could take you to the nurse’s office.”

“He didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah, but it’s an excuse to get out of here. C’mon. Just stand up. I’ll get your bag.”

Grantaire reluctantly lifted his head. Not only was his nose bleeding, but it was bruised and swollen, the purpled flesh blending in with the shadows under his eyes.

“Shit,” Courfeyrac muttered. “How hard were they throwing that damn thing? Never mind, c’mon. Let’s go.” Courfeyrac lifted up Grantaire’s bag, took his elbow, and helped him down from the bleachers.

“That’s right Courf, go kiss your boyfriend and make it better!”

“Lookit the faggots!”

Courfeyrac didn’t exactly expect Bamatabois to reprimand his students at this point, but it still would have been nice.

He didn’t say anything while they walked to the nurse’s office. Then, just when they were about to round the corner to get them there, Grantaire shrugged away from Courfeyrac and started walking towards a nearby stairwell. “Hey, where the hell are you going? Your nose is still bleeding.” And besides that, they were supposed to be going to the nurse’s office. They'd definitely get in trouble if they went anywhere else.

“Sorry, but getting beat up while my teacher watches and laughs is my bullshit threshold for the day. I’m going home.” He fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and stuck one behind his ear before shoving the pack back in his pocket.

“We still have two classes left.”

“Don’t care. I fucking hate this place. Thanks for trying to stick up for me though. That made everything slightly less horrible.”

“Grantaire…if you won’t go to the nurse will you at least go to the principal with me? Seriously, we could probably get Bamatabois fired for that. But the complaint will mean more if it comes from the kid who was actually victimized.”

Grantaire shook his head, then touched a hand to his forehead as he scrunched his eyes shut. “No, no…I’m not gonna…no point. Never helps. I’m gonna go home. See you tomorrow, Courf. Y’know, if I bother coming back.”

As Courfeyrac was pretty sure his promise to his mother ended when it came to skipping school, he could only sadly watch as Grantaire trudged out of the building.

He went back to the gym just long enough to change back into his jeans and his Beatles shirt. The other guys gave him a wide berth of space, which was upsetting on a few levels. There was the obvious, that he’d tanked his reputation on the first fucking day of school. And more importantly, the guys seemed to have believed Bamatabois’ stupid throwaway insult. They were  muttering shit about him being gay with Grantaire.

Courfeyrac actually had been checking out guys since about halfway through sixth grade, but he’d kept that to himself. He was pretty sure he was bisexual, but in the interest of living through to senior year he was keeping that to himself. And besides, even if he wanted a boyfriend, it wasn’t going to be _Grantaire_. The guy was weird looking.

Courfeyrac dressed as quickly as possible, grabbed his bag, and took his leave.

He ended up missing his next class, since he was busy in the principal’s office trying his damndest to get his gym teacher fired.

* * *

 

Bridget was taking a sheet of chocolate chip cookies out of the oven when her son got home from school. She set them on the stove to cool as quickly as possible and started across the room still wearing her oven mitts, ready to give him a hug, but paused when she noticed the dejected look on his face. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Courfeyrac’s shoulders were slumped. He shuffled over to her for a hug of his own accord, and she returned it with a frown. Sometime around starting middle school, Courfeyrac had started resisting her mothering by whining about being too old for hugs and the like. Nothing about his behavior indicated a good start to the school year. “Honey?”

“Mom…why is it so hard to do the right thing?”

“That’s a pretty full question, sweetie. Here, have a seat at the counter. I made cookies to celebrate your first day but…they can be ‘cheering up’ cookies instead. I meant it, dear. Have a seat.” She shooed him over to the counter and had cookies and a glass of milk in front of him in an instant. “Now what happened?”

Courfeyrac explained about his attempt to stick up for Grantaire in gym class and how horribly it had gone. He stopped, thinking she wanted to say something, but she managed to hold her temper in check. There was still clearly more story to be told. “Go on, darling.”

“Kay. So I walked Grantaire over towards the nurse’s office, but he wanted to skip instead. I tried to talk him into going to the nurse’s office like we were supposed to, but he wouldn’t listen so I just let him go. I didn’t think it was a good idea to let him be alone, but I also didn’t want to skip school. It didn’t seem like there was a good choice.”

“You’re right about that, sweetie. I’m sorry you were in that situation. What happened next?”

“I went to the principal’s office to tell him about how Grantaire was bullied and that-that our stupid teacher _helped_.” Courfeyrac looked rightly disgusted about that.

Bridget nodded. “Good. That’s exactly what you should have done. So the school’s looking into it, aren’t they?”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “I lost credit for the day, so did Grantaire, and he’s got detention for skipping. No one else is getting in trouble. Just us. Mom, I swear, I tried to help. I did what I thought was right. Why didn’t it work?”

Bridget hugged him tightly and kissed the top of his head. “You did do everything right, sweetheart. I promise you, Courfeyrac, I have never been more proud of you than I am right now. And even if it doesn’t look like you’ve helped anything yet, I’m sure having someone finally try to stick up for him helped Grantaire immensely. At least he knows he’s not entirely alone.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Courfeyrac mumbled. “I think I’m going to go to my guidance counselor tomorrow and see if I can get moved into another gym class though. Mr. Bamatabois is a dickweed and I don’t want to look at his stupid face all year.”

“You know I don’t like it when you use that language, Courfeyrac. Even if it is applicable here, I’m still your mother.”

“Sorry.”

Bridget kissed him again, and when he finally started squirming and whining at her to stop she figured she’d helped cheer him back towards his normal easygoing mood. They chatted for a few minutes about some of the more pleasant aspects of the first day of school (he’d already signed himself up for three clubs, a pretty girl had complimented his t-shirt, and there were no less than seven pretty girls in his Social Studies class), Courfeyrac ate a few cookies, and then Bridget sent him upstairs to play video games for a little while before starting his homework.

He left under the impression that Bridget was going to start cooking supper, but as soon as he was out of sight she went for the telephone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac comes up with a new plan for navigating school. Bridget isn't a fan.

First thing Thursday morning Courfeyrac headed for the suite of offices where the guidance counselors worked. The little study area between the offices was crowded with students waiting to change their schedules. Most of them were upperclassmen, as it usually took some time for freshmen to realize they could manipulate their schedules by harassing their guidance counselors.

Courfeyrac struck up a conversation with a pink haired girl in Tripp pants while he was waiting. She turned out to be a junior, and by the time he was called in to speak with Miss Ruano he had a date for the junior pizza party in October.

Miss Ruano was actually really nice. She offered Courfeyrac a basket of candy and asked him how he was liking high school so far, and then proceeded to listen when he talked. Usually only his mother did that. Maybe it was a strategic move though, because liking the guidance counselor made him feel a bit bad about having to lie to her, and also for the amount of extra work he’d be giving her by switching around his schedule so thoroughly. Not that liking her stopped him or anything, but her niceness probably helped her out with less motivated students.

Courfeyrac had given it a lot of thought, and there was just no way he could get through the school year if he had five classes with Grantaire. The kid didn’t even try to be normal. He was a trouble magnet, and even if he was a decent kid under his annoying-as-fuck cynical exterior, he made it pretty damn hard for most kids to tell. And their peers weren’t the kind of kids who were going to give a loud mouthed, crazy looking artsy kid a deeper look. He was going to continue to get harassed and picked on, and if Courfeyrac stood up for him every time then he’d just get harassed and picked on with him.

His initial strategy was the soundest one. He’d need to avoid Grantaire like the fucking plague.

Luckily, at the end of eighth grade when they’d been picking out their schedules for high school Courfeyrac had intentionally put himself in classes that were a bit easier than what he could handle. He did want good grades, after all, but he didn’t want to be so busy working for them that he wouldn’t have time for clubs and social events. None of his teachers had suspected this yet, but Courfeyrac was actually one of the smart kids. He kept it hidden with the veneer of an amiable slacker and class clown.

There was no way Miss Ruano was going to change his schedule around to help him avoid some random student, but she was more than happy to oblige when Courfeyrac simpered something about how nervous he’d been about high school, but how now that he was here he was feeling better and he was sure he could handle the honors courses. And there just happened to be a time conflict between honors English and the gym class he was stuck in, so Miss Ruano helped him fill out the form for a gym waiver (he had to join the marching band to get it, but it was a sacrifice Courfeyrac was willing to make). He got to take a second chorus class in place of phys ed.

Overall, when Courfeyrac left the guidance office he was feeling pretty good about life. Unless Grantaire was in his new chorus class, there was no way they had a single class together anymore. He’d never have to see Mr. Bamatabois again, and he wouldn’t have to break his promise to his mother.

As Courfeyrac headed off to his new honors chemistry class, he thought he caught a glimpse of his mother in the hallway. He gave himself a little shake, as that made no sense whatsoever.

The woman he’d glimpsed was being blocked from view by a clump of seniors, and by the time they dispersed she was gone. She’d probably gone through some nearby double doors and up the stairwell. Courfeyrac shrugged it off. His mother was home cleaning house or out running errands, just like always. Hell, if she was feeling particularly naggy she was probably rearranging his sock drawer or something stupid like that at this very moment.

He went to find his new classroom with a bounce to his step, singing under his breath as he went.

* * *

 

Grantaire slunk into his Bio class and dropped into a seat in the back corner as quietly as possible. He took out his notebook and started doodling with his head down, hoping he could get through the day without anyone talking to him.

Well, he’d talk to Courfeyrac if he got the chance. Actually, he was hoping he’d be able to grab the kid on the way out the door at some point and thank him for the other day.

After skipping out on his last two classes, Grantaire had walked circles around town until eventually settling in for a night of loitering at the mall with the other kids from broken homes. They weren’t really his friends, just kids he sat with, so no one had really talked to him and he’d had some time to himself for reflection. He’d decided that he’d been an ass to one of the only people who’d ever done anything nice for him.

By this point, Grantaire realized that the only reason he’d ever been invited to Courfeyrac’s birthday parties was because the friendly kid was good-natured enough to invite every guy in his class, but the gesture had still meant something to Grantaire. Once he’d hit the second grade, he’d stopped getting invited to birthday parties even from kids who did invite the whole class. He couldn’t tell if it was his awkwardness or his parents' that’d stopped the invitations, but either way it had sucked. And no one had ever tried to make him feel better after his stupid big mouth and bad attitude had come back to bite him in the ass before.

He wanted to show his appreciation, but he had limited means of doing so. Sometimes people liked it when he drew for them, so Grantaire had made a pen and ink (ballpoint pen on copy paper, but still) drawing of Courfeyrac and his mother out to eat at Brighams. It was sitting in his bag waiting for a quiet moment to be handed off.

Courfeyrac never showed up for Biology though. When he missed English and Algebra as well, Grantaire figured he must be out sick.

Well then. He was _definitely_ skipping gym class if the one person in the school who liked him at all wasn’t going to be there. As their school required kids to purchase a specific type of workout clothes for use in physical education class, Grantaire still didn’t have gym clothes, and he likely wouldn’t get them any time in the near future. He’d rather fail the class than deal with whatever Bamatabois thought of that.

When gym rolled around Grantaire started walking towards the back of the building, intending to sneak a few cigarettes behind the dumpsters by the cafeteria. He was zoning out a little, thinking of a drawing he might start working on, and so almost walked into a cluster of kids.

“Watch it, asshole,” some sophomore snapped. He shoved Grantaire into a locker, and Grantaire dropped his bag and his notebook. One of the kids stepped on his notebook and turned his heel, probably crinkling the drawing he’d made for Courfeyrac in the process.

Grantaire had swooped down to pick everything up, but when that asshole stepped on the drawing he saw red. He shoulder checked the guy’s leg while he was off-balance, and he toppled into the other kids, knocking a few of them to the floor.

One of them was Courfeyrac.

Grantaire’s eyes widened. “Y-you weren’t in class.”

Courfeyrac didn’t say anything. He started helping a girl from their Bio class (well, Grantaire’s Bio class now) to her feet.

The other guys Grantaire had knocked over weren’t taking it as peaceably as Courfeyrac. “You’re dead you fucking freak!”

Grantaire scooped his things into his arms, ducked his head, and ran for it.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac had to grab Dan’s arm to keep him from charging after Grantaire, but once he did the other kids settled down as well. “Guys, c’mon, just leave him alone. You’re the ones who knocked him over.”

“I didn’t. It was Bangs,” Dan grumbled. “Jeeze Courf, the guy’s a fucking loser.”

“So it’s easier to leave him alone,” Lydia said with a frown. “Trust me boys. You won’t impress anyone by beating up the sad sack who sits in the back and complains about everything. Courfeyrac’s right. Just let him go.”

Courfeyrac offered her a small smile, but he was rattled by the short altercation. He followed his cluster of new friends to chorus and got so lost in thought that he forgot to actively flirt with Lydia. The guys picked up on that and teased him for it while they set their bags behind the risers.

He’d been slightly tempted to follow after Grantaire and talk to him about why he’d changed his schedule, but Courfeyrac was soon distracted by the awesomeness of having two chorus classes in a row. Not only was the male to female ratio in the classes highly in his favor, but the second chorus class, the more advanced performing chorus, had two obviously gay upperclassmen singing tenor, and one of the bass singers was pinging his gaydar a little too.

He was going to do so much god damn flirting this year.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac was still in a good mood when he got home from school, but it dissipated quickly when he caught sight of his mother sitting at the kitchen table. She had her bill box set up in front of her, but she set everything aside when she saw him. Her expression was downright ominous.

Courfeyrac faltered in his step, then shuffled over to the table with his head down. “H-hey Mom.”

“Hello dear. How was school?”

“Better than yesterday,” Courfeyrac answered.

“I should think so,” Bridget said with a nod. “Seeing as you rearranged your schedule. That gym waiver must have lifted a weight right off your back.”

“M-mom?” Courfeyrac frowned, all the guilt he’d been suppressing throughout the day hitting him like a physical force. “I…how did you know about that?”

Bridget pressed her lips together and took off the reading glasses she’d been wearing while doing her bills. “I set up some meetings at your school this morning to discuss Mr. Bamatabois’ abhorrent behavior. Miss Ruano was one of the faculty members I spoke with, and she mentioned you wanting to try for honors courses. Sweetheart, tell me I’m mistaken. You didn’t really rearrange your entire schedule just to get out of having a few classes with Grantaire, did you? I know you’d mentioned wanting to get a different gym teacher, and I understand that, but all the rest of it…”

Courfeyrac chewed on his lip. “We were in five classes together, Mom. It was too much. I can’t stick up for him. You don’t get it. You’re not there. He’s such a freak, Mom. He doesn’t even try to get along. I mean, I know he’s a decent kid under his crappy exterior because you got me talking to him, but he doesn’t let anyone else see that, and they treat him the way he deserves for being such a jerk all the time. Plus it’s not like standing up for him helped anything.”

“The principal thought you’d exaggerated and that you were trying to get out of trouble by blaming the teacher. I set him straight, and Mr. Bamatabois is going to be disciplined for his actions. Courfeyrac, I know it’s not always easy to do the right thing, but that doesn’t make it any less important to try. I’ve done my best to raise you to be a good man, and right now I feel like I failed.”

“Mom, you didn’t-”

“I did if you’re going to do what’s easy instead of what’s right. I told you that that boy needed a friend. But all you really care about is being popular, isn’t it?”

Courfeyrac dropped his head again and stared at his clenched hands. Being popular wasn’t all he cared about, but he had been giving it a very high priority. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” Bridget stood up, let out a weary sigh, then picked up the bill box and returned it to the top of the fridge. “You should get a start on your homework, honey.”

“Yeah. I’ll go do that.”

Courfeyrac trudged down the hall to his room, dropped his backpack next to his desk, and flopped onto his bed. It was amazing how well his mother could guilt trip him without ever raising her voice, or even looking all that angry for that matter. Her disappointment was a much more potent weapon than any of his dad’s yelling or threatening.

He spent a while wallowing in guilt before finally finishing off his homework assignments. Bridget called him down for dinner and he went to join her in the kitchen. She looked cheerful when he walked in, which was reassuring. She never held onto negative emotions very long though, instead trusting her words to hit their mark without her having to beat a dead horse.

Bridget smiled sweetly and held out a plate. “Would you mind bringing this into the living room for your father, sweetie?”

“Sure.” Courfeyrac took the food, went into the other room, and set up his dad’s TV tray. Charles was already parked in front of Wheel of Fortune with his beer, so Courfeyrac didn’t need to run and get him anything. He went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table with his mother.

“Did you finish your homework?” Bridget asked.

“Yep. They’re not giving us much yet. Y’know, first week.”

“Right.”

“Um…so I was thinking a lot about what you said and, um, do you think I should change my class schedule back?”

Bridget smirked and shook her head. “No, dear. I wish your motives for taking honors classes had been a bit more pure, but you’re smart enough to be there. I’d like to see you challenge yourself and do the work you’re really capable of.”

Drat. He was thinking he might need parental intervention to switch back to the lazy classes. “What should I do about Grantaire then?”

“Talk to him,” Bridget said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Actually, now that she mentioned it, it actually kind of was. “Sweetheart, I’ve been giving this situation some thought too, and I think it was probably a bit unfair of me to ask you to make friends with someone you clearly don’t like.”

Courfeyrac bristled a little and shifted in his seat. “It’s not that I don’t like Grantaire…” He couldn’t think of a way to finish that sentence though.

“Anyway,” Bridget continued. “I’m going to back off about your classmate. If you become friends with Grantaire, that’s wonderful. If you boys don’t click, that’s okay too. I just don’t want you becoming a bully.”

“I-I’m not a bully, Mom.”

“If you stand on the sidelines and let bad things happen, that’s not any better,” Bridget said calmly. She took a bite of her mashed potatoes and then continued. “You know how I do some volunteering with our church?”

Courfeyrac nodded, not liking where that was going.

“Well, I think you should start coming with me again.”

“But Mom-”

“Sweetheart, I’m worrying about the type of man you’re growing into. Right now I’m not sure I like what I’m seeing. I think spending a few Saturdays doing something good for other people would help you immensely-” She had to raise her voice over his protests to be heard. “ _And_ it would ease my own mind.”

“But Mo-o-om…I don’t wanna give up _Saturdays_! I’m in high school now. I’m supposed to have a social life.”

Bridget set her fork down with a definitive motion and eyed him coldly. “That’s the best argument you’ve got for me? After everything we’ve talked about, your attempt to get out of volunteering your time is ‘but I want to be popular?’”

Courfeyrac dropped his head so that only his pork chop would see the glare he couldn’t wipe off his face. “Is there a good argument that’d work?”

“Not anymore. I’m waking you up bright and early Saturday morning. You’re going to come out to the hospital with me and help me distribute communion to the poor souls who can’t make it to church.”

Courfeyrac had suddenly lost his appetite. “Can I be excused?”

“Yes.”

He shoved his plate away and ran to his room.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac spends a day volunteering with his mother and finds out more about Grantaire than he's comfortable knowing.

Bridget hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said bright and early. Courfeyrac didn’t understand why he had to be up at six thirty in the morning to distribute communion. It’s not like the people in the hospital were going anywhere.

It made a little more sense when he went through his first outfit critique from his mother though. Bridget sent him to the bathroom for a shower and told him to put on “smart clothes” as they were representing their church (really _her_ church, as Courfeyrac hadn’t voluntarily set foot in the building in almost five years, but he wasn’t about to say that). She attacked his hair with a wet comb and made him change his shirt three times before he ended up in one she liked.

At least she made a good breakfast. Courfeyrac had nothing bad to say about buttermilk pancakes and bacon to open the day.

She shooed him out to the car as soon as he was finished. By the time they actually set off it was nearly eight o'clock. Mercifully, he was allowed to doze with his headphones in rather than make conversation, which wasn’t normally allowed in his mother's car (unless it was his dad napping and being antisocial). Courfeyrac expected them to be heading to one of the local hospitals, but Bridget got on the highway. It seemed a little weird for them to be going to a hospital in Boston, but that was the only explanation he could come up with. Still though. He’d have thought a parish in the area would supply chubby little housewives to hand out communion and say rosary with the bedridden.

After a long and uneventful stretch of driving that Courfeyrac drowned out with Pearl Jam, they exited to a small town Courfeyrac had never been to and parked in front of a mental hospital. Courfeyrac yanked his headphones out and stared at his mother. “You’re taking me to a nuthouse?”

Bridget threw him an annoyed look. “Considering the language you use to describe people suffering with the burden of mental illness, I figured some interaction with the poor souls would do you some good. I want you to develop a sense of empathy and compassion, Courfeyrac. Now wipe that horrible look off your face and try to be polite.”

“This is so unfair! I bet no one else I know has to waste their Saturday handing out stupid wafers to people who’re too fried to know the difference.”

“Did you just refer to the body of our lord and savior as stupid?”

Bridget’s voice had gotten downright dangerous. In the interest of not having to do this _every_ weekend for the rest of his life, Courfeyrac shut his mouth, went around to the other side of the car, and opened the door for his mother. He helped her carry the plastic containers full of cross cookies she’d baked for the patients, refrained from pointing out how sacrilegious cross cookies seemed to him, and acted as perfect a gentleman as he was able while they checked in with the receptionist.

Bridget was given a list of Catholic patients, she and Courfeyrac had visitor stickers slapped on their shirts, and then they set off to give out communion and cookies.

Courfeyrac would have been hard pressed to imagine a worse Saturday for himself. The building smelled like human waste and disinfectant, and the patients were downright creepy. He hated saying the rosary. He thought it was the most boring, uselessly repetitive excuse for a spiritual activity he’d ever seen. Whatever his mother was going for was not going to work. Frankly, he was feeling more resentful towards Catholicism and the mentally unwell than ever before.

After a couple of hours of this, his resolve to be well-behaved had given way under the weight of boredom, tiredness, and crankiness. He dragged his feet down the hallway and openly whined to his mother. “Aren’t we done yet? When do we get to leave?”

“Keep that up and you’ll definitely be coming back with me next week,” Bridget snapped. “And for your information, this is the last person on the list. So try to behave just a bit longer, dear.”

“Fine, fine.”

Bridget knocked on the door to room 421 and waited. After a moment, a musical sounding little chirp of a voice invited them inside. Bridget flung the door open and smiled brightly. “Hello dear. How are you doing today?”

There was a woman sitting on the bed with her legs curled tightly to her chest. Even though she looked like she might have been a bit younger than Bridget, her hair was entirely gray. It was long and straggly, trailing down her back in messy tangles. She was very thin. In fact, it looked like she could have slipped off the medical bracelet on her wrist if she really wanted to. She was probably pretty once, but the vestiges of beauty were hard to make out under the overpowering weight of sadness and suffering etched into her features. The most striking thing about her was definitely her large blue eyes.

She fixed them on Bridget and returned her smile. Her expression was very innocent, which contrasted starkly with her fragile appearance and slightly deranged looking gaze.

“Hello Bridget. You’ve come to see me again? Oh how lovely. And who’s this? Is this your little boy?” Her entire face lit up when she noticed Courfeyrac trailing behind his mother. Courfeyrac instinctually moved to hide himself behind Bridget, which was rather stupid as he was already a few inches taller than his mother.

“Yes, Lucette, this is my boy. Courfeyrac, come meet Lucette.”

Lucette. Shit. So this was Grantaire’s mother. Well Bridget was right; they did have the same eyes. Courfeyrac wasn’t sure if he’d call them pretty though.

“I have a little boy too, you know,” Lucette chattered. She got up off the bed and started walking towards him. “I don’t get to see him much. He’s about your age now, I think. Your mother’s been very kind to me. She’s helping me so that when I leave I can be a good mother like she is, and then I can see my little boy and my girl again, and I won’t have to worry about anyone trying to take them away.” Lucette’s face set in anger at this thought, and she squeezed her hands into tight fists.

“Sweetheart, calm down,” Bridget said, rushing forward and taking Lucette’s hands in hers. “Remember what I keep telling you, dear? No one actually wants to take your children away from you. They just want to make sure everyone’s going to be safe. It’s nothing personal. We’re all here to help you be the best mother you can be, remember?”

“I only believe it when you say it,” Lucette mumbled. Then, all of a sudden, the anger and resentment vanished. She was restored to the bright smile she’d worn when she’d first caught sight of Bridget. “You’ll help me be a good mother, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. I’ll teach you everything I know. Now have a seat, dear. I brought communion, and then we can say rosary.”

“Oh good! I still have my own beads somewhere. Let me go get them. Here, they should be here.” Lucette tore across the little room to her dresser and started sifting through a startlingly large accumulation of possessions until she found a small lacquer jewelry box. She took out an antique rosary, then sat down on her bed across from Bridget, who’d taken a seat in the only chair in the room.

Most of the patients they’d visited in their rooms didn’t have much with them. Courfeyrac had gotten the impression that the patients were generally there for short-term treatments, but it looked like Lucette had been living out of her room for years. The chair Bridget was sitting in had clearly come from outside the building, the dresser was crowded with personal items, and her walls were decorated with pictures. A lot of them were devotional in nature, or contained cheesy affirmations, but some of them were family photos and there were a fair few crayon drawings on paper that had yellowed and curled at the ends.

Courfeyrac’s eyes rested on one family photo that was taped to the closet door just next to him. It hadn’t been taken in this exact room, but some other hospital. It showed Lucette, with a little more black mixed in with her grey hair, sitting on a hospital bed and hugging a little boy to her chest. The boy couldn’t have been more than five or six years old. He was playing with the bracelet on his mother’s wrist, a serious expression on his face while he contemplated the chunky plastic.

How fucking long had she been going to these places?

Courfeyrac tried to keep his attention focused on the prayers, did his best to keep it from wandering, but he couldn’t help it. The entire room was crying out to be examined, and besides that, he was so sick of repeating Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Still though; it felt invasive to even be there. This was information about his classmate he didn’t want, and he was sure Grantaire wouldn’t have wanted to share it if he’d known.

Just what the hell was his mother trying to accomplish anyway?

After Bridget and Lucette finished with communion and rosary, Bridget gave Lucette a couple of the cross sugar cookies. Lucette took a little plate out of her dresser and said she’d save them for guests, as they were too pretty to eat. “Can you teach me how to bake like that when I’m allowed to use a stove again?”

“Tell you what dear, I’ll write out some recipes,” Bridget promised.

“Do you get a lot of visitors?” Courfeyrac asked.

Lucette nodded. “My husband comes to see me every night when he gets out of work, and my daughter visits me sometimes when she’s not at school, and my husband tries to bring my little boy when he can. I get a lot of letters too. I’m very lucky. The church is good to me too. They send me cards and flowers sometimes.” She waved at an expanse of wall that was covered with greeting cards conveying Christmas, Easter, and Birthday wishes. Some of the cards were duplicates, leading Courfeyrac to the conclusion that the church ordered their greeting cards in bulk and used them year after year.

“Your mother visits me a lot too,” Lucette added. “She’s been very kind. Sometimes I think I’d die without the kindness.”

“Lucette, honey, that’s no way to talk,” Bridget gently admonished. “You’ve got so much to live for. A devoted husband and two beautiful children who want nothing more than to see their mother get well. You know that.”

“I do. I live for my children,” Lucette said with a somber nod. She started absently scratching at one of her wrists, and in the process her jagged fingernails lifted her sleeve enough for Courfeyrac to see that her pale skin was littered with ugly scars.

Yep. Definitely things he didn’t need to know about his classmate’s life.

He was interrupted from his resentful thoughts by a knock on the door. Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. He desperately hoped that it wasn’t who he thought it was standing on the other side of that door, but then Lucette called her new visitor in with her sing-song greeting, and Grantaire stepped into the room.

Grantaire’s eyes darted between Bridget and Courfeyrac. Once the surprise wore off he looked scared, like an animal caught in a trap.

“Hi sweetheart!” Lucette chirped, oblivious to the tension. She rushed forward and pulled him into a hug. “I was just talking about you. Oh, I’m so glad you came to see me while my friends were still here. Now Bridget can meet my little boy. Bridget, this is my little boy, and Grantaire, look, this is Bridget’s little boy and he’s about the same age as you. Now you can be friends, right? Because good mothers help their little boys make friends.”

“We’re already friends,” Courfeyrac said, hoping he didn’t sound as uncomfortable as he felt. “We go to school together.”

Lucette smiled as though that were the most delightful thing she’d ever heard. “Grantaire, you didn’t tell me you’d made a friend. That’s wonderful news! I’ve been waiting so long for you to have a friend.”

“Yeah, uh…” The poor kid looked lost. “Dad just dropped me off. He’s running out to get you a fish sandwich for lunch.” He looked down at his feet and awkwardly shuffled back and forth.

Courfeyrac shot his mother a pleading look, but she didn’t seem to know what to say either. They’d have been hard pressed to get a word in around Lucette’s enthusiastic babbling anyhow. She kept going on about how Bridget was teaching her to be a good mother, and that when she got to leave the hospital Bridget was going to teach her how to make good dinners, and then she could have them over for dinner and the little boys could play together.

Courfeyrac had to wonder if she realized that he and Grantaire were teenagers.

“Hey, is it okay if we step outside and talk for a minute?” Courfeyrac asked, motioning to Grantaire. He had to address this. It wasn’t okay and he needed to say something, apologize, _something_.

“Of course! Why don’t you go play outside? There’s a nice lawn with pretty trees. I can see it from my window. See, right there.” Lucette tapped the glass.

“Yeah, I’ll show Courf around. Thanks Mom.” Grantaire bolted from the room without looking to see if Courfeyrac was following.

He did, but he didn’t get the chance to say anything until they’d gotten outside. Grantaire was power walking the entire time with his head down. Courfeyrac finally grabbed his arm and forced him to stop.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Grantaire. My mom dragged me here to volunteer with her. I had no idea I was going to meet your mom, and if I’d known I wouldn’t have come. I won’t tell anyone at school about this, I promise.”

Grantaire dully nodded, eyes still averted.

“Are…are you okay?” Courfeyrac asked.

Grantaire bitterly laughed and turned away, shaking his head. “Of course not.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s not your fault my mom’s all fucked up,” Grantaire spat, reeking of bitterness.

Courfeyrac frowned. “She seems nice, at least.”

“Yeah, well that fluctuates with her meds. Nice wasn’t the word I used when she decided I was possessed by the devil when I was four. She tried to drown me in the bathtub. See, she thought she’d filled it with holy water, and that if she dunked me enough I’d be saved. But, y’know, it’s great that they still let her talk to the churchies even though that’s what kicks up most of her delusions. Seriously, bravo on your mom for reinforcing all that stupid superstitious bullshit.”

“Hey, my mom’s trying to help,” Courfeyrac said defensively. “She probably doesn’t know your mom fixates on religion like that. She’s just a volunteer.”

“Your mom’s really awesome,” Grantaire said. His voice shook a little as he spoke. “You’re really lucky.” He reached into his pocket and fumbled to get a cigarette out, but his hands were shaking too much for him to light it.

Courfeyrac had never felt particularly lucky before. After all, his family struggled sometimes to make ends meet, and he had to work and pull his weight, but as he watched his classmate struggling not to fall apart in front of him, not only did he feel his blessings, he felt them as an injustice. It seemed unfair for him to have a loving, supportive family that included a mother willing to argue with as many administrators as it took to keep him safe in school, while Grantaire was breaking under all his burdens.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac repeated. “If you want to share my mom, that’d be okay. Seriously, she’s like this huge smothering nurturer. You should come over for dinner and stuff. She’d love to have someone else to hug and stuff with food.”

Grantaire finally got his cigarette lit, and he looked a bit calmer for it. “I dunno. That’d be weird, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe. Yeah, I guess. I mean, then you’d have to put up with me and I’ve been kind of a jerk to you.”

“No you haven’t. I was a jerk to you. Isn’t that why you switched your classes?” Grantaire asked. “Because I was so shitty after you tried to help me in gym?”

Courfeyrac couldn’t believe that that was how Grantaire was taking it. Courfeyrac had snuck behind the kid’s back and knowingly abandoned him to hostile classmates (and at least one hostile teacher), and he’d somehow spun it so that it was _his_ fault. Shit.

Although if your mom tried to kill you because she thought you were demonic, maybe you didn’t grow up with the best self-esteem in the world.

“I switched my classes because I’m a cowardly bastard,” Courfeyrac said. “Mom made me promise to be a good person and try to help you out, and it got hard so I ran away. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re one of the good ones, Courfeyrac. You shouldn’t have to suffer with me just because I can’t keep my stupid mouth shut. I am going to miss having you in class though.”

“Why don’t you just switch your classes too?” Courfeyrac asked. “You’re smarter than you let on. I bet you could handle honors work. That’s how I switched everything. I told the guidance counselor I’d been nervous about high school, but now that I’m here I’m pretty sure I can handle honors work.”

“No one would ever believe I was an honors student. Frankly, I’m surprised every year when they let me advance to the next grade. My grades are atrocious.”

“Yeah, but you could say it’s because you’re bored with how easy the workload is. Everyone can tell you’re smart. Plus honors English runs when Bamatabois’ gym class does.”

Grantaire looked intrigued by that. “I suppose it’s worth looking into.”

They stood in silence for an awkward few minutes while Grantaire smoked his cigarette. Finally, Grantaire spoke again. “Hey…did you actually mean what you said to my mom? Are we really friends?”

Courfeyrac smiled and answered without a second thought. “Yeah. We’re friends.”

“Oh. Cool.” Grantaire smiled back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire becomes a fixture in Courfeyrac's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, sorry for the long wait for this update. This chapter blocked the hell out of me. I actually have been working on it on and off since the last time I posted to this fic, but every time I picked it up again I only got a few sentences written at a time. Anyway, now that the boring, transitional bit is done hopefully updates will flow a bit more readily.
> 
> I've missed working with Bridget!

“Dude, I don’t care how you phrase it; Collins is not going to let you do your research paper on V for Vendetta.”

“He totally is! I’ve got this; I know I’ve got this. Didn’t he say he wanted us to pick a topic we’re passionate about?”

“You’re not passionate about your topic; you’re just passionate about getting to read comic books instead of a boring old work of literature.”

“Hey, as long as passion’s in the equation it should still work.”

Bridget was putting the finishing touches on some after school snacks when she heard the animated teen boy voices coming up the walk way. Smiling, she poured two glasses of lemonade and set them by the plates of apple slices and cheese she’d prepared for the boys.

Grantaire and Courfeyrac were still arguing about the dubious prospect of Grantaire writing an honors English paper on a graphic novel when they made their noisy entrance. She cut them off with an unnecessarily enthusiastic and _loud_ greeting. “Hello boys! How was school?”

Grantaire stopped mid-rant to smile at Bridget. He looked transfigured when he stepped into the safe space of her kitchen, the sincere smiles being the most obvious signal of a far more general improvement. “School was okay. We’re supposed to make a project proposal tonight and Courfeyrac’s being a jerk about mine.”

“I’m not being a jerk! I just think you’d better have a backup. Mr. Collins isn’t fun enough to let you study a comic book.”

“If I present my arguments right he will. I think I’m going to throw it against 1984 or Brave New World or something, and put in a vague idea about twentieth century globalism.”

Courfeyrac sat down at the counter and picked up an apple slice. “Mm. If you keep it vague enough Collins won’t be able to tell you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, it’ll be beautiful.”

Bridget laughed, then waved Grantaire over to his plate. She poured a glass of lemonade for herself and sat down across from the boys. “So what are you going to do your project on, sweetie?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Dunno. Shakespeare, I guess? There’s probably a lot to say about Shakespeare, and I like plays.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Very passionate, Courf.”

“Oh shut up.”

“Grantaire, are you staying over for dinner again?” Bridget asked, hoping to cut off another good natured squabble. Grantaire started at being addressed, then turned suddenly shy and mumbled something to her about ‘if it’s okay I’d like to but I understand if you don’t want to feed me again,’ prompting mother and son to show signs of exasperation.

“Come on dude, you’ve been hanging out here almost every night since school began,” Courfeyrac whined.

It had been well over a month since the boys had bumped into each other at the hospital, and with the fervent influence of adolescence they’d become almost inseparable. Bridget and Charles had accepted that they effectively had two boys now, though Charles was a bit more begrudging about it than his wife. He tried to keep a lid on it in front of Courfeyrac, but when the couple was in private he couldn’t help but share his foreboding feeling about letting his young son spend so much time with a boy with such serious issues.

Bridget had some concerns too, but they didn’t outweigh the affection she felt for her little lost waif.

“We’re having stew tonight, Grantaire, with homemade bread. There’s more than enough to go around.”

“Cool. They’re having some big fancy family dinner thing at the hospital tonight, so Dad won’t be home until like ten and he hasn’t gone food shopping in ages.” Grantaire looked momentarily discomfited by speaking so plainly about the neglect he lived in, but he repressed the discomfort with practiced ease and only looked a tad self-conscious while he snacked on the apple slices.

Bridget frowned. “How come you’re not going to the family dinner? Weren’t you invited?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to go. They’re like the most awful mix of boring and creepy. Besides, we’ve got our project proposals to work on tonight.”

“I think your mother would have appreciated seeing you though.”

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders and dropped his gaze. Courfeyrac shot his mom a warning look and she let them change the subject.

The boys talked about school for a little while longer, amusing her with anecdotes from their classes that highlighted their own cleverness while casting their classmates in an unfavorable light, then they disappeared to Courfeyrac’s bedroom to play video games or whatever it was teenage boys did when they were alone together. Bridget cleared up the remnants of their snacks, and returned to happily fussing over her cooking.

* * *

The boys did end up playing video games, but their interest waned after the first hour. Courfeyrac switched over to a Simpsons DVD then dug around under his bed for a case of Mountain Dew he was hiding from his mother, who didn’t approve of that much sugar and caffeine coexisting in a beverage unless it was coffee. By the time he managed to unearth the forbidden soda, Grantaire was sitting on his bed blowing smoke out the window.

Courfeyrac frowned. “If Mom catches a whiff of that she’s going to be pissed.”

“I’ve got air freshener in my backpack.”

“If Mom catches a whiff of cleaning supplies she didn’t use in my bedroom she’s going to be suspicious.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and stubbed out the cigarette on a CD case he found lying on the floor. He flopped back against the mattress and kicked his legs over the side of the bed. Courfeyrac handed him a can of soda before sitting down next to him.

“You busy tomorrow?” Grantaire asked.

“Yeah. It’s the junior pizza party. I’m going with Cassidy Brenner.” He’d told Grantaire about it at least five times already, but for some reason the kid kept forgetting.

Grantaire’s expression soured and he started impatiently tapping his fingers against the soda can. “Right. Wait, why are you going? It’s going to be lame and you don’t even know any juniors.”

“I know Cassidy.” Kind of. In that they’d spoken in person three times and chatted on AIM an even dozen. “Besides, that’s the point. I want to mingle with the upperclassmen. Plus she’s cute. You can’t fault me for going to a dance with a cute girl, can you?”

“Are you going to go to the freshman semi?”

“Hells yes. I’m hoping to take Ashleigh Pierce or Carrie Morales, but right now my options are pretty open. If nothing else, I think Kelsey Forrest is a distinct possibility, but she’s a total fallback. Uh…you’re not planning on going, are you?” Courfeyrac asked, not honestly sure how he felt about the prospect of his anti-social, intentionally grating and loudmouthed best friend tagging along.

“Why the fuck would I spend money to be locked in a room with a bunch of assholes I hate?” Grantaire asked pointedly.

“Because it’s fun…?” Courfeyrac set his soda on the window sill and curled up on his side, facing his slouching friend. “I’m more outgoing than you, dude. I like hanging with the other kids in our grade and dancing and stuff. If you loosened up a little, you might have fun too. It’s only forty dollars for a ticket. If you can’t swing it, I’m pretty sure I can get it out of my mo-”

“I am not shitting away your mother’s cash on a fucking school dance, Courf. Fuck that noise.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Fine. But can you not rip on me for going? I’m not exactly in the minority for wanting to go to a school dance. You’re the one being difficult, okay?”

“Yeah. Uh…are you going to be busy after the pizza party thing?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Hopefully. I think a bunch of Cassidy’s friends are planning on going to the beach and playing cards or something. Would you want to tag along for that part of it?”

Grantaire made a non-committal ‘hm’ and took a long sip of Mountain Dew. Courfeyrac translated it as a ‘maybe.’

“We should probably actually work on our project proposals a little, huh?” Courfeyrac bent over and reached for his backpack. “Since that was part of your reason for bailing on your mom.”

“I guess.” Grantaire set his soda on the windowsill, but rather than reach for his backpack he gave a long stretch and continued lazing on the bed.

It looked like he was getting into another one of his contradictory moods, or a sulk or any of the myriad other irritating behaviors the moody teen was prone to. Courfeyrac figured it was best not to give Grantaire the attention he was looking for, though he silently hoped he got whatever was bugging him out of his system before dinner was ready. Bridget was oddly fond of Grantaire, but Courfeyrac knew his mother and he knew she had her limits. Rudeness was a definite limit, but it was also unfortunately the behavior Grantaire was most prone to, and Courfeyrac really didn’t want his best friend banned from his house.

Courfeyrac took out his English notebook and started looking over the requirements for the final paper. His attention wandered pretty quickly though. Grantaire’s t-shirt had ridden up when he’d stretched, revealing about an inch of translucently pale skin. Courfeyrac could just barely see the jut of a hipbone, not to mention the perfectly flat stomach.

He gave himself a little shake and determinedly fixed his gaze on the notebook. Because he so was not going to start checking out the lanky asshole sprawled on his bed. Beings friends with Grantaire was hard enough sometimes; anything else would just be asking for misery.

“Courf, I’m bored…” Grantaire said in a wheedling tone.

“That’s nice.” Courfeyrac flipped to a clean sheet of paper and started jotting down ideas for his paper. “Maybe you should do your fucking homework.”

Grantaire shifted position yet again and started bouncing Courfeyrac’s notebook with his disgustingly ratty sneakers. Courfeyrac scowled. “Will you cut it the crap out? And take your shoes off if you’re going to put your feet on my bed.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“Least I don’t sound like your mom,” Courfeyrac returned. He smacked Grantaire’s feet with his notebook, then anxiously checked to see if his joke had struck the wrong chord. Nope, Grantaire was still smirking, with that defiant pain-in-the-ass glint in his eyes.

His pretty, pretty eyes…dammit. Courfeyrac could have sworn that he used to think Grantaire was funny looking. Well, he wasn’t exactly smoking or anything, but the better Courfeyrac got to know him the more often he was plagued with thoughts like that.

“Do you know how long our project proposal is supposed to be?” Courfeyrac asked.

Grantaire made another non-committal noise, then finally reached for his bag and took out his notebook. Courfeyrac leaned over his shoulder to look at the pages, which didn’t contain all that much writing, but were covered with fascinating doodles. Courfeyrac had no idea how Grantaire wasn’t flunking out of his new honors classes, considering he didn’t so much take notes as continuously draw. He said it helped him hold his attention on what their teachers were saying, and that it was actually better for future studying than taking notes.

And clearly the doodles meant something to him, because after a moment of looking through the caricatures he’d drawn during their English class Grantaire answered the question. “No required page length. He just wants us to cover everything he assigned, so if we’re succinct we’re succinct and if we go on a bit that’s okay too. He said it should be at least half a page though.”

Based on experience, Courfeyrac’s project proposal was probably going to be about three pages then. He managed to keep his attention on his homework, though it did continue to occasionally stray to his lazing friend. While Courfeyrac worked, Grantaire snuck outside to finish his cigarette, read a few comic books, whined and ranted about how bored he was and how much he hated their school and their pointless homework assignments, and somehow managed to finish up his own project proposal when Courfeyrac wasn’t looking.

They proofed each other’s assignments, and Courfeyrac was struck with a feeling of injustice when he read Grantaire’s. It was only half a page, but the writing was pointed and persuasive and dammit, he made writing a final paper on comic books sound perfectly acceptable.

“It’s unfair for you to be such a brilliant bastard. You don’t even try,” Courfeyrac grumbled.

“Who said I didn’t try?” Grantaire snatched his paper back and stuffed it in his notebook. “I knew what I was going to write before I sat down and did it. That’s why I didn’t need to scratch out so many of my sentences. By the way, you should copy this over so that it’s readable, but the content’s good. I think Collins will go for your Hamlet paper.”

“Sweet. He’s probably going to like your totalitarian governments in literature project. Y’know, as long as I don’t tell him it’s all an elaborate ruse so you can write about your favorite comic book.”

“Your silence will be appreciated.” Grantaire leaned back against the pillow and let his eyes drift shut. He looked really tired, even considering the fact that he was usually running more on energy drinks than restful sleep and adequate nutrition.

Courfeyrac was tempted to ask him if he was okay, but they’d been friends long enough now for him to know how that’d go. Grantaire would deflect with either gentle teasing or biting mockery, depending upon his mood, and Courfeyrac would only annoy him rather than get the answer he wanted. On the plus side, Grantaire was staying for dinner, which meant he had at least a few more interactions with Bridget before the night was out. He was never rude to Bridget, and so as long as she noticed that he was dragging and drawn looking, Courfeyrac could get the answers he wanted through his mother.

* * *

 

Unfortunately for Courfeyrac, his mother failed him. Bridget was normally the biggest nag he’d ever met, but she only made polite conversation with Grantaire over dinner. She asked him a few questions here and there, but mostly she used dinner conversation to harass her son instead.

“I just don’t understand how you expect me to pay for all these dances, Courfeyrac,” Bridget said with a frown.

“But Mom…they’re not even that expensive!” Courfeyrac felt wounded by the very possibility of having to skip even one of the dances he’d been hoping to attend. He was pretty sure he’d already made enough favorable impressions on upperclassmen that he could do a sweep if he wanted to. How could Bridget not see what a big deal it was for a freshman to go to the freshman and sophomore semi-formals and the junior and senior proms, as well as the junior pizza party and the senior picnic? Did she just not get it, or for some inexplicable reason want him to be miserable and unpopular? Was that it?

Grantaire, his own best friend, didn’t seem to be too fussed about his predicament either. “Not that expensive, Courf? They’re at least twenty dollars a pop, the proms are sixty, and that’s not including suits, transportation, and all those after plans you’ve been talking up. You’re looking at spending more on school dances than my father makes in three months.”

Courfeyrac moodily stabbed his mashed potatoes with his fork. “They’re not all at the same time.”

“Darling, Grantaire’s right. Individually the dances aren’t all that much, but together they’re a bit more strain than the family budget can take,” Bridget said. “Especially considering you want to do those extracurricular activities too. We paid twenty dollars in dues for you to join the debate team, and then we had to buy that uniform for your chorus classes, and the fall and spring plays have all those fees, and we still haven’t finished paying the rental fee for your trumpet for marching band. You’re just going to have to scale back on your commitments-”

“But Mo-o-om!”

“Or start paying for some of them yourself.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened and he dropped his spoon with a loud and sudden clatter. He definitely didn't like where the conversation was going. “How can I possibly do that?”

Grantaire smacked a hand to his forehead. “Come on, dude. I know you can be less of a tool than this.”

“Shut up, Grantaire.”

Bridget looked like she’d reached her threshold for exactly how much of a brat her son could be in one night. “Courfeyrac, tomorrow after school I will drive you to the mall so you can start putting in job applications-”

“But I’m only fourteen, Mom! The only place that hires fourteen year olds is McDonalds. I can’t work at McDonalds! That’s social suicide.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to decide how important it actually is for you to go to all these dances and be in all these clubs.”

Courfeyrac crossed his arms over his chest. “This sucks. It’s not like we’re poor or anything. You guys should be able to afford for me to go to a few friggin’ dances.”

Grantaire suddenly shot out of his chair. “Kay, I think I’m gonna get going.”

“Sweetheart, is everything okay?” Bridget asked, rising from her seat as well.

“Yeah, peachy keen.” He stalked out of the room and returned a moment later with his bag slung over his shoulder. Ignoring Courfeyrac entirely, he walked over to Bridget to give her a parting kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for dinner. Sorry your son’s such a bratty leech.”

“Hey!”

Bridget’s brow was furrowed with concern. “Grantaire, I don’t want to send you out of my house looking that upset. What is it, dear?”

“Oh nothing, nothing. Just if Courfeyrac keeps bitching about the injustice of him having to work to go to his shitty dances when I’ve been stealing clothes from the thrift store and throwing my blankets in the drier at night before I go to bed because Dad still hasn’t turned the fucking heat on even though it’s been positively frigid for October, I might punch him in his stupid, entitled face and we’re supposed to be friends. Plus I think it’s bad manners to attack your son in your house, so, y’know. I’m just gonna take off.” His rant left Bridget flabbergasted, and before she could recover he turned on his heel and finally addressed Courfeyrac again. “You know, I don’t get what your problem is. I mean, I’d think the most obvious thing you could take from us being friends is knowing exactly how lucky you are for the life you live and the family you have. I would give anything to only have to deal with the problems you think you have.”

Grantaire left the kitchen, the screen door banging shut behind him. Bridget wrung her hands together, close to tears from the look of it. “Oh dear. Ch-Charles! Courfeyrac, go get him. We can’t let him walk home. Go and get him. Charles, come here! I need you to drive Grantaire home! I’m shaking too much to do it myself.”

Courfeyrac caught up with Grantaire easily enough. He’d only made it halfway down the street. He was smoking again, and he angrily flicked his ash when he saw Courfeyrac jogging up to him. “Go to hell.”

“Bite me,” Courfeyrac returned. “C’mon, dude. You freaked my mom out. She doesn’t want you walking home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking home.”

“Yeah, but Mom doesn’t want you to.”

Grantaire stopped walking and ran a nervous hand through his messy hair. “I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. Now she’s going to think I want you guys to fix that stuff, but that’s not why I said it.”

“Then why did you say it?” Courfeyrac asked. It had seemed like a pretty straightforward guilt trip to him. The fact that it had worked didn’t make Courfeyrac any happier about being emotionally manipulated, or made out to be an ungrateful son. He knew full well his parents were good to him, and that he had a perfectly comfortable life. That didn’t stop him from striving to make it better though, and he didn’t think he was a spoiled shit for wanting to get the most out of his high school years that he possibly could.

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped. “I dunno. It felt kinda good to talk about it though. I mean, my life sucks. Generally I just sit on that and feel pissed off about it. Actually saying, 'damn, my life sucks and it’s not fair' feels really fucking good sometimes.”

“Why don’t you tell your dad to turn the heat on? That’d probably do more for you than scaring my mom.”

Grantaire shook his head. “Wow. You really don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t. But you treating me like I’m an idiot or an asshole isn’t going to fix anything. Can you guys not afford heat? Is that it?”

Grantaire started walking again, but he was heading back towards Courfeyrac’s house, which was a plus. Once more, Courfeyrac jogged to catch up to him as he was power-walking. “Just drop it.”

“Fine.” Courfeyrac shoved his hands in his pockets, and feeling nearly as pissy as Grantaire, followed him back to the house. Charles was waiting for them on the front porch with a paper shopping bag full of goodies from Bridget. Grantaire’s face colored, and he looked guilty when he skulked over to Charles’ Volvo and climbed into the back.

Courfeyrac almost didn’t get into the passenger side, but he wanted the night to end on a friendly note if at all possible, so he tagged along for the trip home.

He might as well not have bothered. Grantaire didn’t say a thing to either of them. He just grabbed the care package and skulked off into his creepy looking house as soon as the car stopped moving. Courfeyrac stared at the lonely looking building until it was out of sight. He was glad, for once, that his father was so reticent. Making conversation just then would have sucked.

When they got home Bridget was sitting at the kitchen table playing Solitaire, a nervous habit she’d picked up to keep her hands moving when she was upset. Courfeyrac managed to sneak by her, but he overheard low murmurs for the rest of the night that meant his parents were talking. He didn’t want to know what they were saying about Grantaire, so he put on some CDs to drown them out and hoped he’d still be allowed to be friends with Grantaire in the morning.

The next afternoon, when Bridget drove him to the mall he didn’t complain once. And, much to his displeasure, he’d managed to set up job interviews at McDonalds and the grocery store before dinnertime.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's probably weird for Grantaire to hang out with his friend's mom when his friend isn't around...eh. He and Bridget don't really mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! This chapter came together much more easily than the last one! I have missed working with these characters like you cannot believe, so yay for them talking to me again. Oh goody :D
> 
> Feel free to let me know if I'm doing a decent job or not. It all feels good to me, but then, I'm a bit sleep deprived at the moment and there's a good chance I'll hate the chapter when I read it in the (arguably more coherent) morning. Writing teenage angst is funny like that.

“Jacqui, can I use your phone?”

Jacqui was actually talking on her phone when her little brother found her to make the request, so she pointedly turned away from him and continued chatting with her friend while she searched their kitchen cabinets for something that would be remotely satisfying if microwaved. Their oven was broken, and Ray wasn’t home often enough lately to think to lean on the landlord about fixing it. Grantaire would have minded more, but everything Bridget sent him home with microwaved well enough for his tastes, and she fed him far more frequently than his father.

Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest and waited. Eventually Jacqui got uncomfortable holding her conversation with her baby brother _right there_ , so she promised her friend she’d call her back later, then stuck her phone in her pocket. “If you want a favor from me, try not being a brat about it. I’m only here to do my laundry and steal some food. I am not falling back into that caretaker role for you again, got that kiddo?”

“I only asked to borrow your fucking phone. Dad decided landlines were pointless when he got his work phone, but he won’t get me one so I’m a bit stuck here.”

“Then try a payphone. Honestly, kid. You’re old enough to start taking care of yourself now.” Jacqui let out a dejected sigh upon finishing her search of the last cabinet, and settled on the pop-tarts Grantaire had been eating for breakfast all week. She plopped down at the table and dug around her purse until she found a handful of change. “Here. Better hurry and make your call while payphones are still a thing.”

“You don’t have to be such a bitch.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, asshole. I don’t even know why I bother coming home. Dad’s never around and you’re growing up like absolute shit. You were better when you didn’t talk back so damn much.”

“Yeah, well those days are long gone.” Grantaire hated himself for it, but he couldn’t help eying the coins that had been sarcastically dumped on the table. There were an awful lot of quarters in the mix. After some hesitation born from a wish for even a shred of dignity, Grantaire swiped them into the pocket of his hoodie, then stalked back to his bedroom to snag his bag before leaving the house.

He’d been hoping to call Courfeyrac and see if the kid really, truly, actually had gone to the stupid pizza party thing, because Grantaire did not want to be hanging out at his house while his sister was home from college.

He and Jacqui had always had kind of an odd relationship. She was his first bully, but she was also the closest thing to a safe, nurturing presence he’d had growing up. On one notable occasion, she’d locked him in a closet when he was four and forgotten to let him out before leaving for school, so he’d been stuck in a small, dark space that smelled like mold and dust until his father had gotten home from work. She’d forced him to endure endless viewing hours of every boy band she’d gotten obsessed with (which was pretty much all of them until her taste in music finally evolved away from that shit in high school). She’d humiliated him and shot him down and used the fact that she was bigger than him and their parents weren’t around to always get her way.

But she’d also tucked him in at night, and made sure she was doing so at a sensible hour when he was too young to regulate his own schedule. She cooked macaroni and cheese for him and poured him cereal when he was too small to do it himself. When she’d gotten her first after school job, she even took enough pity on him to buy him a few toys. Sometimes, when Jacqui was feeling particularly magnanimous, she deflected Ray’s attention from his mouthy son her way so Grantaire could sneak out and avoid psychologically damaging and pointless altercations with their father.

So basically, it was complicated. Jacqui drove him up the wall, being just as socially stunted and nasty as every other member of his family, but in their own uniquely damaged way the siblings loved each other.

Grantaire knew there was a payphone at the mall, but he really didn’t feel like walking that far out of his way. Besides, even if he did get to a phone and use Jacqui’s quarters to call Courfeyrac, he’d just find out that yes, Courfeyrac was at the stupid fucking pizza party. Even if Bridget hadn’t caved, and Courfeyrac did have to go to the mall to fill out job applications, he still had plenty of time to do that and make it to the hall the juniors had rented by six thirty.

Usually, when Grantaire wanted to avoid being at home he just kicked around the mall until closing. There wasn’t really anything to do, but sometimes he asked people for “bus money” and then used it to play games in the arcade, and sometimes there were other broken kids from broken homes that he could sit with. He didn’t really like most of his fellow mallrats, but then, there weren’t a whole lot of people he really liked in general.

In fact, Grantaire could probably count the number of people he really liked on one hand, and one of them was probably sitting in her kitchen at that very moment, playing cards while she waited for something delicious to finish baking. The mall had become less appealing than ever, now that he’d been welcomed into the sanctuary of Bridget’s kitchen.

Grantaire chewed at his lip, trying to decide how weird it would be if he walked over to Courfeyrac’s house to hang out with his mom while he wasn’t home. It would probably be weird as fuck, and Courferyac would probably get mad at him if he did…

He didn’t exactly have an abundance of friends though. Grantaire decided he was better off not risking the wrath of the only one he had, and he started walking towards the mall. He was a little more than halfway there when the heavy clouds in the sky made good on their threat and opened up on him. He hadn’t really been thrilled about loitering at the mall for five or six hours when he’d been warm and dry, but now that he was cold and wet he definitely didn’t want to deal with other damaged teens, security guards on a power trip, and assholes who thought he was shop lifting just because they’d seen him do it a few times in the past…

Grantaire changed courses and headed for Bridget’s house, figuring that even if Courferyac did get mad at him it probably wouldn’t last very long. The kid was too good natured to hold a grudge, and besides, he’d said Grantaire could borrow his mom when he needed to. Cold, wet, hungry, and lonely had to qualify as the right time to take him up on that offer.

* * *

As Grantaire had predicted, Bridget was sitting in her kitchen when he got there, but she was neither baking nor playing solitaire. The kitchen table was covered with scrapbooking supplies. It looked like he’d caught her in the middle of some kind of project for her church. He felt a little bad about interrupting her, especially when she let out a horrified squeal when she saw him knocking on the screen door.

“Grantaire! What are you doing outside in that downpour? Why would you be out without an umbrella? Is that useless sweatshirt really the heaviest jacket you own? Get in here this instant!”

Grantaire was immediately at the mercy of Bridget’s mothering. Before he managed to get a word of greeting out he found himself sitting in his usual chair at the table, wearing a bulky red and black plaid bathrobe, a fluffy yellow towel in his hands for his dripping hair, his wet sneakers off and sitting by the door, a pair of slippers replacing them, while Bridget went to the stove to heat some water for tea. “I, uh, didn’t mean to bug you. Sorry.”

“Oh come now, dear, you’re never a bother to me. Are you warm enough? Well, the tea will help as soon as I finish it. Dear, careful with that towel. Try not to drip on my papers, alright? There's a good boy.”

“What are you working on?” Grantaire asked, casting his eye over the assortment of textured papers, clippings, and notecards.

“The other homebodies at my church and I decided to get together and make up a recipe book to sell at the next craft fair. I volunteered to put the darn thing together, but I must say I had no idea what trouble it was going to be before I started. I’m trying to make it look as nice as I can, but it needs to be simple enough for us to run copies off. And, you know, ideally people should be able to read our recipes once I’ve finished. But more importantly, have you eaten yet? Charles and I already had dinner, but that means I can tempt you with a leftover pot pie. It’ll only take me a few minutes to warm it up.”

For a second Grantaire was afraid he was going to either burst into tears or hysterical laughter. He managed to choke out an almost polite request for the leftovers without startling Bridget, and then she was off to fuss over his food and he had a few minutes to collect himself.

And here he’d been all worried about showing up unannounced for no real reason, but the only questions Bridget asked were ‘aren’t you cold’ and ‘have you eaten?’

Bridget cleared away just enough space on the table to safely present him with his food, then she went back to laying out the recipe cards on the cardstock. Grantaire ate his supper in contentment, basking in the still unusual but gradually more familiar feeling of safety that came to him whenever he set foot in this house, but then his cloud of tranquility was pierced by a string of curses delivered in a colorful mix of English and Irish.

Grantaire gaped at the chubby housewife he associated only with motherhood and purity. “Was the Irish stuff as bad as what you said in English?”

Bridget’s face colored. “I’m sorry, hon. Truth be told, I used to swear like a sailor before I had Courfeyrac. When he got old enough to parrot back what I was saying I cleaned up my language a bit, but it still slips out of me when I’m being tested. And this cunt stain of a book is testing my patience to its breaking point.”

“I can see that.” Grantaire had said much worse himself, but he felt vaguely traumatized hearing those words from Bridget. He was starting to realize what a pedestal he’d been putting the woman on. “Um…is it anything I can help you with?”

“No, sweetheart, I won’t do that to you. I’ve taken this burden upon myself and it wouldn’t be fair of me to inflict it on others. But these infernal cards will not lay flat on this Satan spawned paper. Fuck, but I give up. I’ll have Betty and Diane take a look at the fucking thing, but it won’t be ready for the motherloving craft fair and just…just…oh. I need to get a lid on this before Courfeyrac gets home. He’ll never listen to me about his mouth if he hears me being such a hypocrite. Would you like cookies, Grantaire? I think I’m going to bake some cookies.” She ran a frustrated hand through her bushy brown hair, sending quite a few stands on end.

Without waiting for an answer, Bridget went to the cabinets to start collecting the dry ingredients for her sugar cookies. Grantaire slid into the chair she’d been sitting at and started feeling out the different papers. By the time the batter was in the mixer, not only had Bridget calmed down substantially from her comfort baking, but Grantaire had sketched out layouts for five pages of the cookbook.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“Fixing your book. You’re right about the notecards. They’re too heavy to sit right on that paper, and besides, they’re not even uniform or completely legible anyway. You guys have a desktop in the living room. Let me typeset the cards for you, we can print them off on regular copy paper and then we’ll jazz ‘em up with your scrapbooking stuff when we mount them to the cardstock. The copy shop will probably have an easier time running them on the color printer that way anyway.”

Bridget paused to wipe the flour off of her hands, which was overall a pretty pointless gesture since she wiped them with the hem of her shirt. She still got flour all over Grantaire when she ran across the room to hug him and kiss his cheeks. His face was flushed when she let him go, but he was happy nonetheless.

“You are heaven sent, Grantaire. But sweetheart, I didn’t expect to put you to work. You know that, don’t you, dear?”

“Well yeah, but I mean that’s partly why I wanted to help you. You’re always so good to me and you never ask for anything. It’s kind of unfair.” He suddenly found it impossible to hold her gaze and so trained his on the floor. Bridget gave his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

“Darling, frankly I don’t understand how anyone could treat you any differently. I mean, generally speaking I think people ought to be good to each other just on principle, but it’s particularly easy to be good to you. You appreciate it so much. No, don’t look at me like that, Grantaire, I mean it. You’re a good boy. I know you are, you know you are too, so don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.”

His father called him an ungrateful prick at least once a week, and used the word asshole more than he used Grantaire’s name. “Sometimes it’s kind of hard to-to think something like that. I don’t feel like a very good person most of the time.”

“In this kitchen, you’re my angel and tonight you’re saving my life with this book. I didn’t even ask you to, you just went and turned your clever mind to my problems out of the goodness and gratitude in your heart. You’re an absolute dear, Grantaire. I’ll thank you not to let an excuse of a man like Raymond influence your measure of a person’s worth more than it ought to.” Her voice had taken on that steely note that usually only crept in when she was lecturing Courfeyrac about being a brat, though with a slightly different character. When she spoke firmly to Courfeyrac her words were still colored with love and respect, but that was entirely lacking when she spoke of Grantaire’s father.

Hm. Apparently she’d encountered him enough to have formed a low opinion. Which, Grantaire firmly believed was completely justified, but it was weird to think of there being a single person Bridget didn’t feel warmth and compassion for. As far as Grantaire had seen, the woman was made of that stuff.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I probably shouldn’t speak about your father like that.”

“No, it’s cool. He’s an asshole. We’re in complete agreement there. But uh…it looks like it’s bothering you more than it’s bothering me so we can just drop it. I’ll just go type these up for you.” He started gathering the recipe cards from the table.

Bridget beamed at him. “I’ll have a plate of warm sugar cookies waiting for you by the time you’re done. See, that’s my proper side of the cookbook. Working _from_ it, not putting the darn thing together.”

* * *

 

It was exactly three hours past Courfeyrac’s curfew when his new friends dropped him off at the end of the street. They all wished him luck on sneaking in without his parents waking up, then they drove off to drop off the next teen with a violated curfew.

Even though he was a little nervous, Courfeyrac couldn’t help smiling as he all but danced his way up the sidewalk. With the night he’d had, even the prospect of being grounded by Bridget while starting his new life as a bag boy on Monday couldn’t destroy his good mood. He’d gotten to grind on a dance floor for the first time, which he’d found to be way more fun than it looked, and he’d met all of Cassidy’s friends and then they’d gone to the beach and listened to music while they shared a bottle of…something or other. They’d kept a paper bag over it the entire night so he didn’t actually know what he was drinking, and he hadn’t really liked the taste of it, but the way the shit tasted wasn’t really the point. The point was that he’d gotten tipsy with a bunch of upperclassmen at the beach at midnight.

And he’d gotten to touch boobs. Not just Cassidy’s, but her friend Shayna’s too. And the juniors hadn’t believed it when they’d found out he was a freshman. They’d thought he’d moved from another school or something. Shayna had even said he was too cool to be a freshman.

Just when Courfeyrac thought the night couldn’t get any better, he got to his house and saw that it was completely dark. Bridget and Charles were already in bed, and with any luck they’d gone to sleep before his curfew hit and therefore had no idea he’d broken it. Luck was clearly on his side.

Courfeyrac got his key into the front door and turned it as quietly as possible. He toed off his shoes, then crept inside, moving slowly since he had to make it to his room without turning any lights on.

Needless to say, when the lamp by the sofa switched on seemingly by itself he almost crapped himself.

“Excuse me mister, but does this look like eleven o’clock to you?”

“Grantaire? What the…what the hell are you doing here? And turn that light off. You’re going to wake my mother up.”

“Actually, I volunteered to wait up for you so Bridget could go to sleep. She’s usually up at six in the morning so she can make you your breakfast and pack you a lunch and then send you off to school, you lucky piece of shit. She’s not used to pulling these kinds of hours.” Grantaire sat back against the couch, perfectly comfortable with the hour from the looks of it.

“So you’re going to rat me out?” Courfeyrac scowled at him. “You’re supposed to be friends with me, not my mother.”

“Your mother baked me sugar cookies and fed me pot pie. All you do is tell me my ideas are shit and whine to me about how you’re not popular enough.”

Courfeyrac pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dude, what are you even doing here?”

Grantaire frowned. “It was getting kinda shitty at my house, so I took off and got caught in the rain. I, uh, didn’t really have anywhere else to go so I came here and your mom said I could spend the night.” He was wearing a pair of Courfeyrac’s pajamas and the couch was set up like a bed, so Courfeyrac had guessed that last part.

He started to feel a bit guilty. Courfeyrac had found it annoying as hell the past couple of days when Grantaire continually asked him about the pizza party, and he’d gotten snappier and snappier the more times he’d repeated that yes, he was definitely going and he was going to have a damned good time when he went. It hadn’t occurred to him that Grantaire wasn’t harassing him about it to be annoying. When Courfeyrac wasn’t around, he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

“Um…do you _have_ to narc on me to Mom?”

“She only went to bed an hour ago so she knows you violated curfew.”

“Fuck.”

“Plus…” Grantaire sighed. “I promised to wake her up as soon as you got home. She’s not even mad, Courf. She’s just scared that you’re lying in a ditch somewhere or something. She’s worried about your safety. You know, like a good mother.”

“Right. She’s still going to chew me out. I guess I kind of deserve it though.”

Grantaire’s eyebrow shot up. “Kind of? Dude, you have a cell phone. You could have called her at any time and told her you were going to be late. You don’t even have an excuse.”

“Alright, alright. I’m already going to get chewed out by Mom. You don’t have to get a head start on it.” Courfeyrac skulked towards the hallway, but paused. “Uh…just give me five secs before you wake her up. I want to brush my teeth first in case the stuff I drank smells.”

“What’d you drink?” Grantaire asked.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “A bottle that was wrapped up in a brown paper bag?”

Grantaire got up and walked over to him. He got close to Courfeyrac’s face and smelled his breath. “Cheap flavored vodka, and yeah dude, it totally stinks. You’d better brush your teeth and do a few swishes with some strong mouthwash.”

“Kay.”

Grantaire gave him the few minutes it took to make himself presentable, and once Courfeyrac was assured that his breath wouldn’t give him away they crept over to his parents’ room to wake Bridget up and assure her he was safe.

He really needn’t have bothered with the mouthwash. Bridget took one look at him and figured out that he’d been drinking. “For heaven’s sake, Courfeyrac, you are _fourteen years old_. There is plenty of time for you to do all that when you’re a man and you can handle it. There is no reason in the world for you to keep insisting on growing up at this rate. Running around with older kids at odd hours of the night, getting drunk-”

“Mom, I’m not drunk! I’m just a little tipsy-”

“Those are distinctions alcoholics make, Courfeyrac! Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you can’t even stand straight on your own two feet. Get in your room and get in bed. You’re grounded, and we’re going to renegotiate your curfew and these infernal school dances you want to go to in the morning.”

“But Mom-”

“Do not test me, young man, I am in no mood for it.”

Courfeyrac figured it was a further demonstration of how not-drunk he was that he had the sense to do as she said. He’d plead his case in the morning, but with the way her eyes were flashing, at the moment his ass was best in bed.

Grantaire awkwardly hovered in the living room during the exchange. As soon as Courfeyrac’s bedroom door shut behind him Bridget deflated. She pressed a hand to her face and took a few deep breaths.

She started when Grantaire crept up behind her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. He snatched it back again and stuttered out an apology.

“No, I’m sorry dear. I just forgot you were there, is all. Goodness, Grantaire it is well past both of our bedtimes. Go and lie down, sweetheart.” She took his arm and started walking him back towards the living room and his bed on the couch.

“Uh, I don’t think you have to worry about him, really. He’s just an idiot. He’s not, like, a trouble kid. I mean, I know all the trouble kids and Courf’s got way more sense than any of them. He just wants to fit in. We can knock some sense into him eventually.”

Bridget smiled. “I know, but thank you for saying so. I know he’s a good boy, but it has been a bit of a fight to make him into one. Keeping him one through these blasted teen years is going to turn my hair grey. I’m a mother. I can’t help but worry.”

“Well, you’re a kick ass mother and you’re doing a good job.”

“And that is exactly what every mother always wants to hear.” Bridget pulled him into a hug, and when she pulled back she kept her hands on his shoulders, looking up into his gaunt and wasted face with an expression of maternal warmth. “Good night, darling. Thanks for waiting up for my wicked, ungrateful beast of a son. The only reason he’ll be getting fried dough in the morning is because I’m cooking it for you, and I’m not quite mad enough to have him watch you eat his favorite breakfast food.”

“Eh, who knows? He might get you there by morning, and then more fried dough for me.”

“Sweetheart, is there…is there something you needed to talk about?” Bridget sat down on the arm of the couch and smoothed the blankets around him once he’d started to settle in. Grantaire picked at a loose thread in one of the blankets, once again invested in avoiding her gaze. “Forgive me for my prying, but it feels like you’ve been dancing around saying something all while we were working on that book together and then when we were playing cards with Charles. If there’s something you want to get off your chest, I’m here for you. I was hoping you’d noticed that by now, but it’s pretty clear that you still need a few helpful hints about that.”

“It’s…just kind of hard.”

“The big things always are, aren’t they?” Bridget smoothed back some of his hair from his face, and the tears that had been threatening all night finally slipped past his defenses.

“M-my mom’s coming home from the hospital again next week. That’s why Dad’s been gone so much lately, because he’s trying to get her ready, and Jacqui’s home from college so she can help out, but they’re both just giving me so much shit and saying that I need to change or I’m going to set her off again and she’ll be back in the hospital because of me because it’s _always_ my fault, but I can’t help it. It’s not like I want her to fixate on me and I feel like a horrible person because I don’t want her to come home. I just want her to stay gone. I’m fucking evil, okay. But mostly I just wish she was like you. Mom’s love is scary but yours is really nice. I wish you were my mom instead.” His voice faded into a sob, and he hid his face in the shoulder of her bathrobe while she hugged him.

“Oh sweetheart.” Bridget rocked him in her arms and did her best to soothe the tears away. She stayed with him until he fell asleep, and when she finally went back to bed she was surprised to find her husband with his eyes cracked open.

Charles normally slept like the dead. She hadn’t expected any of the fuss in the hallway, and especially not the living room, to have caused him even the slightest stir.

“No, Bridge.”

“What?” She gave her head a little shake, not sure what he was referring to.

“That boy out there. You can’t keep him just because his family’s a disaster.”

Bridget let out an irritated tut. “I know that, Charles. Lucette can’t help herself, poor thing, and Ray might be an utter bastard, but he’s always toed the line enough not to have gotten his children taken away. If I kept Grantaire, it would be considered kidnapping and the law wouldn’t be on my side. Which is horseshit, I might add. No one should be against letting me give that boy the mothering he so clearly needs.”

“Bridge, can’t you just keep mothering the son we’ve already got? I don’t have anything against Grantaire, but, well, you already know I don’t think he’s great company for Courfeyrac. You’re getting too involved.”

Bridget pressed her lips together. “We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that.”

Charles let out a disgruntled sigh, but he rolled over and went back to sleep. Bridget, on the other hand, was up for at least another hour worrying over her little lost waif before she finally fell into a restless sleep.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


End file.
